I know, because Ive counted themthe freckles stretched
across your back, the veins that twist around your forearm
and the fingertips, each tapered into smooth nails
with rising crescents. Your hand, a wave alongside
twists of pillowcase and sheet, a cloud formation made
by bodies always shifting. At your wrist, the watch
you cannot hear but here beside my head, its ticking
mechanism making little gasps. A wrist now whittled,
as are all the bones, by years of lifting: stones and firewood.
The dog we both loved as you placed her on a last
blanket. Everything now curled around us, floorboards,
walls and windows, ceiling fan that dangles, stopped.
And blinds that pleat the faintest light. Just ten more
minutes of sleepten more minutesten moreten.